‘An error you’re stuck with,’ Sam deadpanned, ‘since no one else of sound mind would be willing to do the MD’s job on the termsIdo. And let me reassure you: I think it’s clear to most people how rarely you wonder whether you might be in the wrong.’
‘In my grandfather’s day, an heir like you would have been disinherited,’ Roger hissed.
‘In your grandfather’s day, an heir like me would have died at the Somme,’ Sam said scathingly– and Amy could virtually hear the accompanying eye-roll. ‘If you thought there’d be any advantage to disinheriting me, you’d have done it years ago,’ Sam went on, blithe and calm. ‘Whether you like it or not, preserving this place is part of my future– and I intend to ensure there’s somethingleftto preserve when the time comes. You can decry this event, and the strategy behind it, to your heart’s content– but I assure you, I know what I’m doing. Unlike most of our ancestors, I wouldn’t risk my own financial security on a self-indulgent whim.’
Bile burned the back of Amy’s throat as her stomach turned over. She swallowed back vomit, rage, disappointment and … Shit.Tears.
In a flash, she realised that as her attraction to Sam had grown– as she had failed to check it, struggled to keep it in its box– she’d also begun hoping she could like him again.
She’d almost believed, and some part of her hadwantedto believe, that his intentions were good. That his motives were as pure as the rest of Rowton’s residents always claimed.
She’d been right, though; he wasn’t on their side, any more than the wolf was on the side of the sheep. Sam cared about this house, his family’s legacy and patching up the holes in their supposedly threadbare finances– not about the ‘ordinary people’ of the village, plenty of whom still depended on the estate for their homes and livelihoods. He also, apparently, cared about Tilly Wexmore-Yates.
She’d heard enough. Being careful not to step on anything that might snap or crack underfoot, she gently backed away from the trees she’d concealed herself in. Staring around her, she felt almost dazed– as though she’d stumbled out of a nightmare and back into reality again, only to discover the real world was just as horrible as her dream. Everything she looked at undulated before her eyes, waving and shimmering in soft focus. It was a few seconds before she realised the wood looked watery because she was crying.
She hated Sam for this– possibly more than ever. He’dalmosthad her– he’d so nearly convinced her that her judgement was off, with his ginger spiced ice cream and the revelations about his sister and niece. She’d been so close to trusting that there was more to him than she thought, that he’d changed …
Lightning suddenly flashed overhead, illuminating the dense canopy of leaves above her. Seconds later, thunder rumbled and she felt the first spots of rain hit the bare skin of her arms.Great.
It was only then that she realised Bertie had been awfully quiet the whole time she’d been spying on Sam and Roger. This was most out of character for a six-kilogram sausage dog who managed to sound like a pack of crazed Alsatians every time anyone rang the doorbell.
She looked down to discover she was still clutching the plastic handle of his lead with the long line attached and his harness dangling from its end.
The dog himself, however, was gone.
Chapter 21
Racked with panic, Amy stumbled back onto the wood’s main path and shouted to her left, then her right. ‘Bertie! BERTIE! Come back!Please!’
She was really crying now, harder than she had in years– as if the events of today had broken something inside her and the loss of yappy, scrappy Bertie had been the final straw. Tears were streaming down her face and her chest was heaving with deep, shaking breaths that kept turning into sobs.
Gran would never forgive her if she couldn’t get Bertie back.Howhad he slipped his harness? She’d taken him for countless walks over the past few months, and nothing like this had ever happened.
What if he found his way onto the road and ran out in front of a car? He was the daftest, most coddled canine Amy had ever met. He had no road sense whatsoever and certainly no notion of his own mortality.
Then there was the storm. It had taken just seconds to set in and now thick sheets of rain were falling all around her. Thunder continued to crash at regular intervals and lightning frequently lit up the bruise-coloured sky. Bertie would be terrified. Soaking. Cowering somewhere, too afraid to emerge.
Amy herself was saturated, her T-shirt and skirt sopping wet and stuck to her skin. Her dark hair was plastered against her scalp and every inch of her was dripping and goose-bumped. As Rowton’s month-long heatwave broke right over her head, the temperature of the air had plummeted. Shivering, she staggered in one direction and then another, calling, whistling and yelling. ‘BERTIE! BERTIE! COME BACK! HERE, BOY!’
Exhausted and increasingly hopeless, Amy tripped on a tree root and crashed clumsily to the ground. When she clambered back up again her right knee was bleeding and her hands were grazed, both oozing red.
She hung her head, trying to tamp down her distress and think logically. She needed to get the dog back urgently, she had to keep looking for him– but at any moment Ken might call and tell her Grace had come out of theatre or woken up and asked for her. It surely wouldn’t be long until she had to get back to the hospital– but how could she face her grandmother in this state?God.How could she ever face her again if she couldn’t find Bertie, or if something awful had happened to him?
At the thought of his soft, wet nose never nudging hers again– the cold absence she’d feel beside her on the sofa if he wasn’t snuggled up there, snoring, whenever Grace was out– Amy began sobbing harder. The silly little sausage had made herlovehim, and this was the result: this abject terror of losing him.
She tried to calm herself, but her heart felt like it was cracking– fracturing as she stood there weeping fat tears in the chilly rain. She cursed the violet clouds above her, overwhelmed with dread and frustration.
‘Amy?! Amy! What the hell’s going on? Are you hurt?’ Sam was running towards her, having just emerged from a nearby thicket of trees. He was wearing running gear and, like her, he was drenched. His white T-shirt, now semi-transparent, was clinging to him and his hair was a mass of messy, rain-darkened waves.
‘I’mfine,’ Amy told him, her voice unsteady. She tried not to notice as he licked a raindrop off his bottom lip.
‘You’rebleeding,’ Sam said flatly, ‘and running around the wood, screaming.’ He stepped towards her and she backed away a little.
‘I’m looking for Bertie, okay?’ she yelled at him, still sounding stricken. ‘And I tripped. It’s no big deal– just a few cuts and bruises.’
‘Let me look,’ he said. It wasn’t a question. He came closer and as Amy tried to move beyond his reach, her back hit a tree trunk. She huffed out a breath, reluctantly settling against it as he took her left hand in his to examine it.
‘We need to clean this up,’ he said, ‘and your other hand,andyour knee. There’s mud and grit in there, and you’re freezing. Let’s get you back to the house.’
